


3rd November, 1982

by Subscore_quartz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Rated M for language, Slight Dumbledore Bashing, ooc? the author Does Not Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26425123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subscore_quartz/pseuds/Subscore_quartz
Summary: On the third of November, Remus Lupin reflects back on Sirius Black's life.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 6





	3rd November, 1982

You were 18 when you were dragged into a war unwillingly, though it’s hard to be unwilling and stay neutral when your entire family was perpetuating said war. Ever the bastard, you joined the opposing side the moment you were free from the shackles of schooling, further fuelling the ire of your parents. You were enthusiastic – and why wouldn’t you? Here you were, a fresh graduate with a job, and you got to go on _adventures_ – and threw yourself into each and every mission with all your strength and all your pride. You were under no illusions of the danger your occupation possessed (or so you thought you knew), but it was a bloody noble cause and you did it anyways.

You were 19 when you raised your first bottle of whisky to your lips, with the intention of not a pleasant evening in a breezy garden, but of intoxicating your brain so you don’t remember what it’s like to be sober. The moonlight accentuated the bruises under your eyes, and the smile you sent over was one of exhaustion, a barely audible _I’m fine, Rems_ when you visibly weren’t. Perhaps the war was starting to sink its claws into you, whispering sweetly all the ways your friends could one day leave and never return. Perhaps in your haste to be good, be kind, be brave and fight for The Right Thing, be on the Good Side, you’d forgotten that in wars there is no innocence. There could be Good, there could be Bad, but innocence will be torn from your still-bleeding chest and shredded right before your eyes. But then he _Floo-ed_ you and told you enthusiastically about an 'expedition' gone wrong with Lily, and the baby on the way. And you were shocked, panicked, near hysterical but delighted. _We need some good news now, something Good to focus on and take our minds off the shitstorm,_ you said, grinning as we retrieved our coats and umbrellas, _but Merlin’s balls, have I never expected this at all_. 

You were 20 when you received the news of what happened to your brother. You stared at the news deliverer for 5 minutes blankly, the letter laying inconspicuously on the table before you _Incendioed_ it abruptly and stormed out of the room. The man in the white beard sighed, took off his glasses, said _he really ought to control his temper, it could become quite the liability on the field_ and _look after him, won’t you, Remus? We can’t afford to lose another person_ and I nodded and agreed, because that’s expected of me. But deep down I resent him, resent that I couldn’t take you out of this war, resent that “look after him” translates to “ensure he’s not emotionally compromised by the next battle”. The remnants of pragmatism, whispering _we need as many hands on deck, this really isn’t a good time to be a child_ , were swept away as you curled up by the fire and muffled your heartbreak into your knees, and how helpless I felt, kneeling next to you and offering a cup of tea. As if it would magically cure your grief. But then the sprog was born, and the squalling menace brought light and hope and renewed determination to fight for the Good, the Innocent. Life returned to your eyes (albeit not as lively as they used to be, 5 years ago), and you put up a front of normalcy, feigning it so well you almost fooled yourself.

You were 21 when you approached me at our kitchen table. _Jamie asked me to be Secret Keeper_ , you said, running a hand through your hair, and it made sense – ever since the Prongslet came, the attacks redoubled fervently. What didn’t make sense was the way you didn’t, couldn’t meet my eyes, and said _as Secret Keeper we’d better keep our distances, I'd have a huge target on my head and those close to me would similarly experience risk_. But I knew what you suspected, and it hurt so much more than silver or scars or severed ties because I thought you _trusted_ me, you know I wouldn’t do that, not in a million lifetimes. Though, in a few months, I would have the same suspicions about you, so I reckon I don’t have the right to criticise.

You were 22 – no, still 21, and I don’t quite know if that makes it worse or not – when I got the owl on the coast of Dublin. It was a day late. And I hurried back to London, but it was too late, and I had failed, failed, failed, failed you, failed me, failed them, failed the sprog. And all throughout Diagon Alley people were celebrating and cheering and I very nearly cursed all of them because what was there to celebrate? What was there to celebrate when the superficial victory neglected all that was lost beneath the surface? When success cost us so much, that it hardly seemed a victory anymore? When the world had won, won at the cost of my loss? A flicker of impulse almost directed me to breaking into the Ministry, breaking into Azkaban, interrogating you and squeezing every single drop of the story out of you before leaving you to the Kiss, but Albus was calling and _there's work we need to follow up with, Death Eaters are still at large, we can't afford to put our guards down_ and I couldn’t quite muster up the courage to do it.

How ironic that I had, at first, desperately clung to the thought that this was a joke, a cruel prank, mischief gone awry. That the war had not violated your innocence so thoroughly. That we could, somehow, return to how we were Before. When we both trusted and loved each other, when my sorrows you chased away, when joy was not overtaken by resignation.

I’ve had a year to think about it, both logically and illogically. It has led me to the conclusion that no conclusion can be yielded, that it was a misjudgment on my part, that I had better release you from my memories. Yet our minds are terrible at doing they should have done, and this is the reason why I sit on a rooftop at midnight, nursing a can of beer, staring at the lone car chugging across the silent London street.

Happy fucking birthday, Pads. I have never felt your absence more.


End file.
